Forgiven
by Zeragii
Summary: Doc Harding saw the sergeant bringing in a young man to the jailhouse. His heart gave a faltering beat as he recognized the little fellow and he turned pale. It couldn't be... (A missing scene from the album Vertes Années) Rated T, just in case, for mention of alcohol.


**NOTES:**

**This story is an extra scene I added to the Les Tuniques Bleues album "Vertes Annees". In this album Blutch finally attempts to desert the Union army, running away with Chesterfield hard on his trail. The sergeant captures him and takes him to a small town, locking Blutch up in the jailhouse. Chesterfield then goes to a saloon across the street, where he meets a drunken doctor who seems to know Blutch. The doctor then proceeds to tell Chesterfield Blutch's life story.**

**Blutch had been left on the doctor's doorstep when he was a baby, and the doctor, Doc Harding, tried to raise him. But Blutch was taken away and put in an orphanage. Years past, and eventually Blutch ended up back with Harding. They had many adventures together, most ending badly, because of the doctor's drinking. Blutch, as he grew older, often left Harding; but he always came back. Until one day Harding stole gold dust from Blutch that Blutch had worked so hard to find. All so he could buy whisky. Blutch left him again; this time for good. And the doctor had not seen him since.**

**As Harding tells Chesterfield about Blutch's past, the sergeant begins to feel sorry for the corporal, and keeps taking trips to the jailhouse to give him food, a blanket, and anything to make Blutch more comfortable.**

**There is a part in the story where Harding goes to the jail to see Blutch, but the very next panel he returns, and nothing is said of what happened. I wanted to know what it was like for the two to see each other again. And how Harding helped Blutch escape (because it is hinted in the album that he does).**

**So, here's what I think happened...**

**I DO NOT own any of these characters, they belong to Raoul Cauvin and Willy Lambillotte. I write only for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others.**

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The short walk from the saloon to the jailhouse across the street felt anything but short. In fact, it seemed longer with each unsteady step the doctor took. In his right hand he gripped a grey coffee pot filled with warm, black brew, while in his left he clutched an empty mug. His steps were slow, deliberate, giving the impression of a man completely calm; taking a stroll at his leisure. Or so it would appear to any casual bystander. In reality, Doc Harding felt as though he might faint. His heart beat wildly with anxiety, thumping in his chest as if it were trying to escape. He was tense on the inside, despite what his appearance on the outside was; movements feeling stiff. Of course, that could be attributed to all the whisky he had consumed. No. That wasn't it. He was used to the effects liquor had on him. He knew that wasn't the reason for his distress.

Finally crossing the street, which had felt more like crossing a desert, Harding paused on the jailhouse steps.

It had been years, he realized. Many years...What if he was still mad at him?...What if Blutch hadn't forgiven him...The thought turned his stomach, and an intense urge to retreat back to the saloon shot through him. Cowardice nearly won, but curiosity, and an underlying sensation of guilt, kept his feet planted on the worn boards of the jailhouse porch. He had to see him. He _needed_ to see him. Doc Harding had no doubt the young man he had seen the sergeant taking into the jail was indeed Blutch. There was no mistaking that small form, and those familiar eyes. Eyes that displayed a hidden pain that only Harding seemed to be able to see; a pain he was largely to blame for.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he steeled himself and stepped through the single, green painted door.

The sheriff looked up irritably from his seat behind his desk. "Now, look here," he began, looking quite grouchy, before realizing that his visitor was not the troublesome sergeant he had been expecting. "Oh, sorry there, Mister. What can I do for you?" The lawman caught a subtle whiff of alcohol from the doctor, and eyed him rather suspiciously.

Doc swallowed nervously. He tended to stay clear of the law whenever possible. Not that he was a criminal, but authorities often didn't take kindly to drunkards, such as himself. He was always worried he'd get in trouble. But Harding was never a problem to anyone; at least, he hadn't been in years. When drunk, he never became angry or violent. Quite the contrary, he became far more docile; subdued. Sad and depressed.

Again gathering his courage, Doc replied. "The sergeant gave me permission to talk to the prisoner."

The sheriff rolled his eyes. "Why not, he's had every other luxury," he grumbled. He grabbed the keys from behind him off the wall and stood, making his way around to the front of the desk. "Come with me."

Harding followed the lawman to Blutch's cell, which Doc was surprised to not find closed.

"Crazy sergeant insisted I leave the cell door open," the sheriff explained. He gestured for Harding to go inside. "But I'll lock it now. I'll give you ten minutes."

_That wasn't very long._

Harding nodded. He looked down at the mug and pot in his hands. He held them out to the sheriff. "Here, the coffee's still hot."

The lawman's eyes lit up as he accepted the warm drink, glad to be the recipient of care for a change. Chesterfield had been in and out of the jail all evening, bringing in things for the prisoner, while he, the sheriff, had been given nothing.

Harding stepped into the cell, nodding a thanks as the lawman locked the barred door behind him. The sheriff took the coffee and returned to his desk.

Doc Harding took in the room at a glance. It was dark, despite the solitary window set in in the far wall. The cell was dry, and fairly clean, though utterly bare of furnishings. The only object in the enclosed space was a board, fitted with a mattress, suspended from the wall by two, rusty chains. But it was the still figure _on_ the cot that got his full attention.

Blutch was curled up under a faded yellow blanket, sleeping peacefully with his face to the wall. His side rose and fell rhythmically, shifting the material slightly.

The sight sent memories flooding back to the old doctor's hazy mind. Memories of tucking a much younger boy into bed, filling the child's head with dreams of a better future. Harding looked sadly around the drab confines of the cell. This was the future his care had sent the boy; a jailhouse in a slow, broken-down town. A stab of regret pierced his heart at the thought.

Suddenly, Blutch shifted in his sleep, tossing over so he was now facing Harding, sighing and stretching as he began to wake.

Harding once again felt the urge to flee, but there was no way he could escape the cell before Blutch saw him. And so he clenched his fists to his sides and stood directly in the young man's line of vision.

Blutch opened his eyes from a restful sleep; though, for the life of him, he couldn't remember dropping off. It was warm beneath the cotton blanket and, even though the cot wasn't all that comfortable, it was more so than the bed roles he usually slept on back in the Union camp. He probably would have fallen back to sleep if a sudden movement beside him hadn't gotten his attention. He sat bolt upright, trying to blink the bleariness from his eyes. What he saw didn't please him at all.

"H-Hello, Blutch..." Doc Harding took his black top hat from his head and held it in front of him nervously.

The corporal launched himself from the cot, standing and stumbling back a few steps as he took in his unexpected visitor. Blutch supposed he should have expected it. He had seen Harding when they had first arrived in town. He had hoped the tipsy doctor hadn't seen him, or recognized him. He had hoped, but he had been wrong.

Blutch gathered himself, trying to hide his initial surprise with a mask of anger. "What are _you_ doing here?" His voice was menacing, causing Harding to flinch.

"I-I saw them bringing you in. I wanted to...to see you."

Blutch felt his discomfort grow. His mind was trying to sort through the conflicting emotions at seeing the old doctor. In truth, he _had_ missed the man over the years; a lot more than he'd ever admit. Of all the people who had ever found their way into the corporal's life, Harding had always been the closest thing he'd ever had to a father. Harding had been the first person he had ever fully trusted...and the last.

"Well, now you've seen me," Blutch huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He glared down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact. However, when Harding gave a chuckle, Blutch met his gaze. "What's so funny."

Harding smiled at him fondly. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Yeah, well, neither have you," the corporal shot back. He had taken in the doctor's ruffled appearance and red nose. Not to mention the unmistakable smell of whisky on his breath.

Harding's smile faded. "I suppose I deserved that," he said sadly. The doctor sat down on the edge of the cot and looked at his hands in his lap. They shook from countless years of drinking. "I met your sergeant," he added carefully. Harding looked up and Blutch blinked a few times as though he didn't see any significance in his statement. "I told him about us. About you."

Blutch jumped visibly, face draining of nearly all color. "How...How much did you tell him?"

"Everything. About the orphanage. About the mines. Pike's Peak." Doc Harding paused, afraid to mention the last encounter they'd had. "The gold. Everything."

Blutch sighed, sliding a hand down his face tiredly. That explained Chesterfield's sudden change in treatment of him. The sergeant had gone from calling him a "dangerous criminal" to catering to his every need. A blanket and a pleasant meal were given to the corporal. Chesterfield had made the guard leave the cell door open so that he wouldn't feel trapped. The sergeant must have felt guilty after hearing Blutch's sad tale, bringing him those things to ease his conscience. The corporal wasn't sure whether he should be thankful or angry. Harding telling Chesterfield all about his past _had_ gotten him a free meal and some comfort, where he was sure none would have been provided otherwise. On the other hand, Blutch was upset that Chesterfield now knew basically everything about his less than wonderful childhood, and it bothered him. Blutch had always guarded his past. Telling would only reveal his weaknesses; show how vulnerable he really was. He had hidden it for so long, he had almost forgotten it himself. And now, suddenly, in the confines of this small jail cell, all his fears and insecurities resurfaced.

Blutch sat down on the cot beside the doctor. Harding glanced over at him, then back down at his hands. "How long has it been since we last crossed paths? Five years?"

Blutch nodded absently.

"That sergeant said he met you in a saloon. Said you were running the place." He paused. "How long was that after...after we parted ways?"

The corporal shifted uncomfortably. "...Two years..."

Harding raised an eyebrow. "Two years? What were you-"

"What do you care?!" Blutch suddenly snapped, leaping back to his feet, standing before the doctor once more. "What do you care what my life was like after you left it?! You were never there to begin with!"

"Now, just a minute-"

"No! Listen, Doc," the corporal growled angrily, mindful of the level of his voice this time. The last thing they needed was the sheriff getting involved. "You were never there when I needed you! Every time we managed to get a decent life; a _real_ life, you were always getting drunk and everything would just fall apart! Every cent I earned; every penny I struggled to make, you spent on whisky! Every time!" Blutch turned his back to the doctor, hands clenched furiously at his sides. "And like a fool, I always gave you another chance, Doc!"

Suddenly all the anger seemed to drain out of the corporal. His hands hung limp at his sides. "I...I trusted you, Doc. You were the only person that I was sure cared a thing for me...When you took the gold dust...When all those prospectors showed up..." He couldn't finish, and Harding was certain he heard him sniff. "I should have known there's no one in this world I _can_ trust...Including you." This last sentence was whispered with such sadness; such hurt, that it tore right into the doctor's soul like a poisonous barb.

There was a long, painful silence.

"Blutch, I..." Harding's voice cracked and he had to swallow before he could continue. "I never meant to hurt you..." He allowed a sad smile to seep into his features. "When i found you on my doorstep all those years ago, it changed my life. you were a chance for a new beginning...A chance that I ruined...I'm a hopeless case, Blutch; too broken to be fixed."

Blutch remained with his back turned, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"I know what I've done I can never make up to you. How can I...How can I fix the past? I wish I knew. But if it means anything to you...I'm...I'm sorry, Blutch."

Corporal Blutch had always been a very stubborn person. Over the years he had shown himself to hang on to things, especially grudges, with a death grip. He tended to lock away his hurts, letting them stew in his mind, fermenting into deep anger or strong hate. He had always been that way, for as long as he could remember. But that barrier, stacked block by block through the years by bitterness and fear, fell away with those three whispered words.

Blutch turned, his expression unreadable.

Harding looked up from his hat in his hands and their eyes met. "Blutch, can you ever forgive me?"

The doctor blinked in surprise as Blutch suddenly closed the space between them, and with a crushing strength, gave Harding a desperate embrace. It took the doctor a moment to realize he was being hugged, not attacked. He had half expected Blutch to lash out in anger. To receive any affection from the usually distant young man was astounding to say the least. Getting over his initial shock, Harding returned the embrace with hesitant, but fatherly pats to the corporal's back.

With a cough they separated, attempting to forget their momentary surge of emotions. However, that one, small, and how ever uncomfortable gesture seemed to clear the cell of all the hostility and tension that had existed only moments before.

"Yes...hmm, well," Harding sputtered, cramming his hat back onto his head. "I didn't just come in here to say 'hello' and 'goodbye'." He leaned in and whispered, "I've come to help you out of this place."

Blutch leaned away from the man's heavy breath, but a smiled despite himself. "How are we going to do th-"

"Times up." The sheriff unlocked the door, stepping inside holding the empty coffee pot. He handed it to Harding with a satisfied smile. "Thanks for the coffee, Mister. I really needed it. I've been catching cold work'n 'round here, and that knocked it right out of me." He turned, leading the way back out of the cell. "Well, ya better be getting on your way. I've got to g-"

CLANG!...Thump!

"...Won't you get in trouble for doing that?" Blutch inquired, looking down at the unconscious form of the lawman stretched out on the floor.

"Naw," Harding said as he calmly tossed the dented coffee pot down onto the cot. "No one'll suspect a harmless, old drunk like me. And besides, he wasn't looking when I hit him. For all he knows, _you_ knocked him out." He gave Blutch a teasing smile.

"Gee, thanks."

"No problem, Kid. Now get out of here before someone spoils your chance."

Blutch nodded, heading out the cell door, when Harding stopped him by grabbing his arm. "Wait a minute, Kid. There's one more thing I've got to say. I don't know where you're headed from here, but as I see it, you've got two choices. You'll either defect, as you were planning and go off to find some life somewhere far away...or you could go back to the army." Blutch opened his mouth to object, but Harding held up a hand. "No, no. I don't want you to tell me, but I do want to say this...Blutch, you said there's no one in this world you can trust. Heaven knows I haven't helped diminish that belief...I can't be trusted; and few people can be." He smiled. "But I know one person you know who you _can_ trust."

The corporal blinked in confusion. "Who?"

"Your sergeant."

"Chesterfield?!" Blutch practically sputtered, trying hard not to burst out laughing. "He's the one who put me in here!"

"Are you two friends?"

The corporal made a face.

"Blutch..." Doc said warningly.

"Yes."

Harding nodded. "That's what I thought." He paused. "You know, he was very upset by your story."

Blutch blanched visibly. "...Yeah?"

"He looked genuinely concerned...and reacted quite strongly. He nearly strangled me when I told him that I...stole the gold from you."

The corporal's face lit up in a smile. "That's Sergeant Chesterfield all right," he laughed.

"But the point is that he _cares_," Doc stressed seriously. He sighed. "Blutch, it's true few people can be trusted, but your sergeant...he's a man who is loyal to his beliefs. He put you, his friend, in this jailhouse because you went against those beliefs; what he thought was right. But then when he heard about your past, he felt bad; going out of his way to make things better, all while trying to do his duty. It's not easy to stay loyal to both your work and your friends, but he's trying his best." Harding smiled. "How much more trustworthy can you get. People like that are rare, Blutch. Very rare."

The corporal remained silent for a moment, before looking up into Doc Harding's face, grinning. "You certainly have a lot to say for an old drunk."

Harding returned the smile. "Maybe I do." He held out his hand. "Goodbye, Kid. And good luck."

Blutch took the doctor's aging hand in his own and gave a firm shake. "Thanks, Doc, and...and I hope to see you again."

They held that pose for a moment longer; hands clasped and eyes locked. Finally, after all these years, a peace settled between them. An understanding. A forgiveness.

With a final, gentle smile, Blutch headed for the door and a minute later he was gone.

Doc Harding stood in the sheriff's office; unmoving. For the first time in years he was genuinely happy. A weight felt as though it had been lifted from his heart. he felt light. Free. It didn't change what he had done in the past, but that didn't matter anymore. Blutch had forgiven him.

Leaving before the sheriff could awaken, Harding headed back across the street to the saloon. The walk didn't seem nearly as long as it had before. He entered the saloon and was at once greeted by the sergeant named Chesterfield.

"Well?"

"Sorry," the doctor replied, "I did't recognize him."

Chesterfield shook his head. "I would have thought..." He shrugged and turned to the bar tender. "What do I owe you for the room?"

"Nothing," the patron replied with a wave of his hand. "Thanks to you, I did not see the time passing."

Doc Harding leaned against the bar. "Can I drink something, now, Homer?"

The bar tender smiled, reaching up and pulling a bottle down from the shelves behind him. "Sure, Doc."

"Put it on my account," Chesterfield added. He was clipping his belt on around his waist, preparing to leave.

"Thank you, Sergeant!"

The sergeant leaned against the bar and gave Harding a curious look. "By the way, Doc ... why are you so sure it's not him?"

"The kid I remember has never had a mustache, let alone a lawman's badge!" Harding gulped down his drink with a smile as a look of realization dawned on the sergeant's face. In a whirl of curses, Chesterfield ran out of the saloon headed for, Doc guessed, the jailhouse. His smile grew. He looked up and found the bar tender smiling as well.

"So it was really him?" the patron asked. He leaned forward to take the bottle and place it back on the shelf, but Doc held up a hand.

"Leave the bottle, Homer. And put it put on his account."

The man complied, too interested to care about the whisky at the moment. His smile grew as realization came to him as well. "...and you helped him escape?"

Harding leaned even harder against the bar, looking back toward the direction of the jailhouse. "I owed him that much."

It was true. Doc Harding hadn't recognized Blutch. Not because he looked any different, but because he had changed so much mentally. He wasn't that same little boy he had dragged all over the country. He was a soldier in the army. A reluctant soldier, but a soldier all the same. Blutch had forgiven the doctor for what he had done, and Doc finally found it in his heart to forgive himself.

Somehow, Harding knew that Blutch had gone back to the army. He wasn't sure how he knew. Maybe it was because he really wanted that to be the case...or maybe...just maybe, it was because he knew that, no matter what happened, Blutch always came back eventually.


End file.
